The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3) Read online

  Copyright © 2015 Chris Kuzneski, Inc

  The right of Chris Kuzneski to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2015

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 8662 8

  Cover images © CollaborationJS/Arcangel Images (gunman) and Shutterstock.com

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Chris Kuzneski

  About the Book

  Also By Chris Kuzneski

  Praise

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chris Kuzneski is the international bestselling author of numerous thrillers featuring the series characters Payne and Jones, including THE SECRET CROWN and THE EINSTEIN PURSUIT. He is also the author of THE HUNTERS, the first novel in a new electrifying series that continues with THE FORBIDDEN TOMB and THE PRISONER’S GOLD. Chris’s thrillers have been translated into more than twenty languages and are sold in more than forty countries. Chris grew up in Pennsylvania but currently lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida. To learn more, please visit his website: www.chriskuzneski.com.

  About the Book

  THE HUNTERS

  If you seek, they will find …

  The travels of Marco Polo are known throughout the world.

  But what if his story isn’t complete?

  What if his greatest adventure has yet to be discovered?

  Guided by a journal believed to have been dictated by Polo himself, the Hunters set out in search of his final legacy: the mythical treasure gathered during Polo’s lifetime of exploration.

  But as every ancient clue brings them closer to the truth, each new step puts them in increasing danger. …

  Explosive action. Killer characters. Classic Kuzneski.

  BY CHRIS KUZNESKI

  Payne & Jones Series

  The Plantation

  Sign of the Cross

  Sword of God

  The Lost Throne

  The Prophecy

  The Secret Crown

  The Death Relic

  The Einstein Pursuit

  The Hunters Series

  The Hunters

  The Forbidden Tomb

  The Prisoner’s Gold

  Praise for Chris Kuzneski:

  ‘Kuzneski writes as forcefully as his tough characters act’ Clive Cussler

  ‘Riveting and relentlessly paced’ James Rollins

  ‘Kuzneski does it again with another terrific tale, filled with action and deception, bringing the unimaginable to life. Definitely my kind of story!’ Steve Berry

  ‘With bullets flying and thrills twenty to the dozen, Kuzneski is on explosive top form … You can’t afford not to hunt this one down!’ Scott Mariani

  Acknowledgments

  Here are some of the amazing people I’d like to thank:

  Scott Miller, Claire Roberts, and the whole gang at Trident Media. They sold this series long before it was written. That’s the sign of a great agency!

  Vicki Mellor, Emily Griffin, Darcy Nicholson, Jo Liddiard, Ben Willis, Mari Evans, and everyone at Headline/Hachette UK. They bought this series when it was nothing but an outline, then they helped me bring it to life. Thanks for believing in me and the Hunters.

  Ian Harper, my longtime friend/editor/consigliere. He reads my words before anyone else – and then tweaks them until they’re perfect. One of these days, you’ll see his name on a book of his own, and when you do, I urge you to buy it!

  Kane Gilmour, who has traveled more than Polo himself. In addition to being a talented writer, he actually visited most of the locations in this book. His time in Asia and Italy helped me get things right. Thanks for all of your help.

  All the fans, librarians, booksellers, and critics who have enjoyed my thrillers and have recommended them to others. If you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.

  Last but not least, I’d like to thank my family for their unwavering support. At some point, I’ll actually take some time off and get to thank you in person.

  Okay, I think that just about does it. It’s finally time for my favorite part of the book. Without further ado, please sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story …

  Prologue

  October 9, 1298

  Republic of Genoa

  (249 miles northwest of Rome)

  Metal creaked and groaned, startling Rustichello da Pisa from his restless sleep. Even in the fog of slumber, he knew the horrific sound of a cell door opening. Anytime he heard it, he would snap awake to the pounding in his chest – even after all these years.

  His senses on full alert, he strained to hear every rustle and scrape on the other side of the wall. He knew the Genoese guards were returning his neighbor after yet another round of torture. With any luck, they were done for the day and wouldn’t be coming for him next.

  He would find out soon enough.

  The uniformed guards moved into the adjacent cell and dumped their day’s ent
ertainment on the floor with a wet splat. Then they quickly closed the door behind them and left without a word. Only then did Rustichello let out the breath that he had been holding.

  He didn’t move until he heard the guards’ heavy footsteps recede down the dark corridor. He always did his best to avoid their notice, unless they were coming for him. On those occasions there was nothing to do but submit. He was too weak and frail to fight them anymore.

  There was no sense in making them mad.

  He slowly stood from the loose straw on the floor that served as his bed and brushed away the pieces that were tangled in his hair. Then he slipped a hand into his ragged linen trousers and scratched at the fungal infection on the right side of his groin. Thanks to the humid air in the city of Genoa, everything in the dungeon was damp. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, his clothes. Molds and lichens grew over every surface of his cell. Some patches were so large that they looked like broccoli.

  On the bright side, at least he hadn’t started eating them.

  Or naming them.

  Confident that the guards were gone, he moved over to the wall and peered through the small window into the next cell. It was little more than a missing stone that had been dug out by a previous occupant, but the rectangular gap served a monumental purpose. Rustichello and his neighbor used the empty space to chat, to pass the long hours well into the night.

  Their window provided meaningful human interaction.

  But today, he couldn’t see his friend through the hole.

  Suddenly worried, Rustichello lay on the damp floor where it met the moss-covered wall and glanced through an even smaller gap. This one at floor level and designed for drainage. The stench of dried urine in the gutter near the hole was overpowering, but he needed to check on his neighbor, who was deadly silent in his cell.

  ‘My friend,’ Rustichello said in Venetian, ‘do you need water?’

  He knew better than to ask if the man was all right. Both had been to the chamber where the Genoese slapped them around. When they left there, they were never all right.

  The beaten merchant blinked at him a few times, trying to regain his bearings, then coughed up some blood from his broken ribs. Though he was far younger and hardier than Rustichello, the constant beatings were taking their toll.

  ‘If you can spare some,’ he croaked.

  Their daily rations were minimal at best, but Rustichello would gladly share his water. His neighbor had done the same for him on his own return trips from abuse. He grabbed his tin cup and scooped some murky water from the stone bowl he was given each morning. Then he carefully positioned the cup in the tiny drainage hole on the floor and nudged it through the tunnel, careful not to tip it or touch the drinking rim to the top of the tunnel’s roof.

  With a trembling hand, the merchant grasped the thin handle and dragged the cup along the floor until it was right next to his face. He pressed it to his swollen lips and sipped cautiously, pleased when swallowing did not add to his pain.

  ‘I don’t think they are after information anymore … I’m not even sure they still enjoy the beatings. It feels more like routine now – for them as well.’

  ‘Must not have been Guillermo, then. That sack of shit enjoys it every time.’

  The merchant smiled at the eye on the other side of the wall. They would frequently curse their captors in private, but never loud enough to be heard by the guards or other inmates.

  ‘No. Not the ogre,’ he muttered. He finished the water in small sips, quietly thankful that Guillermo hadn’t been to work in nearly a week.

  It was a small blessing in his current hell.

  The merchant had been captured during Venice’s war with Genoa when his ship had run aground on a sandbar near the Anatolian coast. Enemy soldiers had taken him in chains on one of their boats back to the Republic of Genoa – one of the last places a Venetian ever hoped to find himself. Of course, it probably hadn’t helped matters that during the fighting he had fired the severed heads of Genoese sailors from a massive catapult in between the volleys of rough iron balls designed to plunge through the decks of enemy ships.

  The merchant had spent the last few years paying for his hubris.

  ‘So,’ Rustichello whispered, ‘do you need to rest for today, or shall we continue?’

  The merchant smiled and slowly clambered to his feet. ‘I think we can continue.’

  He moved to the gap in the wall at eye level, grateful to no longer smell the latrine. Rustichello’s smiling face quickly appeared on the other side of the opening. The merchant handed him the empty cup through the hole. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

  Rustichello took the cup and nodded.

  He was only in his fifties, but he looked at least seventy – his hair white, his skin pale, his eyes sunken. He had been captured in an earlier naval defeat, and as a result he had already languished in the dungeon for a decade by the time the merchant had been imprisoned. Everything about him was thin and haggard, the look of a man who was nearly defeated.

  The one thing that would return life to Rustichello’s face was story. It didn’t matter whether the tale was told or received, he thrived on sending his mind to other places. At first, the elder man had impressed the merchant with tales of King Arthur, but once Rustichello had heard some of the details of the merchant’s travels to the far edges of Tartary it was the only subject that he wanted to talk about.

  And write about.

  Amazingly, on the night of his imprisonment – before the pouches on his clothing had been properly searched – Rustichello had discovered a small nook under a loose stone in his cell and had managed to hide a book, a broken quill, a small inkpot, and a pair of spectacles.

  Not much, but enough to keep him sane.

  The book, a stained and worn copy of Herodotus’s history, had seen better days, but it was serving a different purpose now. The Venetian would talk about his journeys, and Rustichello would carefully write down each word in French in the spaces between the lines of existing Greek text. He was defacing one of the greatest historians who ever lived so that the merchant’s adventures might one day lead Rustichello on a journey of his own.

  That is, if the guards never found his hiding place.

  And if he lived long enough to be released.

  And if he could grab the book before he departed.

  Everything, it seemed, came down to that one small word.

  If.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ Rustichello asked.

  The merchant turned his back to their window and slowly slid down the wall in his cell. Rustichello did the same. It was their custom to sit with their backs to the wall between them. The Venetian would speak for a few hours each day, until his voice felt dry, while Rustichello scribbled and scratched his quill on the paper of the book, always attempting to tease out more information on the hidden wealth of Asia and the treasures that his friend might have left behind.

  ‘Where were we?’ the merchant asked through the wall.

  ‘You were about to describe the people of Tebeth.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, remembering, as he closed his eyes and left the cell in his mind. ‘The province of Tebeth was terribly devastated at the time of our arrival …’

  The merchant had no problem recalling the most trivial details of his journeys abroad, and yet there were some aspects of his travels that he refused to share with anyone. Though he was extremely grateful for the kindness that Rustichello had shown him over the years, he wasn’t ready to trust his neighbor with his greatest secret: the location of his family’s fortune.

  That was a secret that Marco Polo would keep for himself.

  1

  Present Day

  Saturday, March 15

  Denver, Colorado

  Hector Garcia couldn’t have cared less about the view.

  He was there to hack.

  Garcia was oblivious to the panoramic landscape of the Rocky Mountains outside the windows of the suite he had leased on the upper floor of the
CenturyLink Tower. He hadn’t rented the office for the scenery but for its proximity to the roof of the second tallest building in Denver – and its array of antennas, satellite dishes, and telecommunications equipment. As it was, he had covered most of the windows with thick tinting to reduce the glare on his monitors and to regulate the temperature inside the suite.

  The room was kept at a perfect sixty degrees from the industrial-strength air conditioning unit that constantly battled the heat output of the room’s vast collection of computing hardware. Three racks of enterprise-grade servers and switches from Juniper Networks, Cisco, and half a dozen other vendors filled one wall of the room. An adjacent office held the rest of his system in row after row of next-generation devices that resembled stacks in a public library.

  The wood floor of the main room was littered with overlapping power cords and network cables, and Garcia lived in the middle like a spider in its web. A collection of tables was configured in a circle, with a small gap to access his comfortable office chair in the center. A total of twenty-four screens – two rings of twelve monitors – encircled the single seat like the walls of a fortress.

  In front of the monitors was an assortment of wireless keyboards, mice, track pads, web cameras, and other peripherals, plus an unopened package of Twinkies. Garcia would save the snack cakes for later. He never ate or drank at the desk, preferring to eat in the kitchen down the hall or on the mattress he had thrown in the corner. He’d seen too many people ruin a good system with a spilled can of Mountain Dew. The Twinkies were only there to remind him to get up once in a while to eat.

  In his early years as a hacker, Garcia often went to bed hungry because he had spent all of his money on computer equipment instead of food, but money was no longer a problem since he had been hired by an enigmatic Frenchman named Jean-Marc Papineau to assist a team of specialists in finding the world’s most famous treasures.

  The first mission had taken the team to the Carpathian Mountains in search of a missing Romanian train. Then they were asked to find the tomb of Alexander the Great in the vast Egyptian desert. After a devastating tragedy on the mission, Papineau had reluctantly paid the surviving team members a portion (twenty percent) of their agreed-upon fee (five million dollars each) while placing the rest of their money in separate trust funds that they couldn’t touch as long as they continued to work on his team. They still hadn’t received payment for their second mission, but Garcia wasn’t the least bit concerned about the money.